


The Impenitent Man

by levitatethis



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Community: oz_magi, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only once Toby stops punishing himself for every single thing that’s gone wrong in his miserable life does he finally start to live again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impenitent Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinewa](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sinewa).



> Wish #15  
> Request 2:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Beecher/Keller or Beecher/Other  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: Dying is easier than living, forgiving is harder than loving.  
> Canon/AU/Either: Post Season 6 (can be AU or canon)  
> Special Requests: none  
> Story/Art/Either: Story please.
> 
> Original story post and comments can be found here: http://oz-magi.livejournal.com/109249.html

 

 

 

 

 

_"Some nights, I stay up cashing in my bad luck_  
 _Some nights, I call it a draw_  
 _Some nights, I wish that my lips could build a castle_  
 _Some nights, I wish they'd just fall off_

_But I still wake up, I still see your ghost_  
 _Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for oh_  
 _What do I stand for? What do I stand for?_  
 _Most nights, I don't know anymore..."_  
 **\- Fun,** **Some Nights**

 

Toby flips through memories, shuffling them out of chronological order and into categorized ones of significance. Undoubtedly it’s far from straight forward a venture, the criteria for drawing lines of distinction from life before Oz to the one after and the warped reality—the scarred over permanence of surviving those physical and emotional challenges—of the time in between that changed his life forever.

His war wounds are not the badges of honour others wear with bloated pride. They are simply facts stated without dispute. It should be easy. The truth _should_ be liberating but it’s broken and fractured instead, spoiled of any good intentions; it leaves him gasping for breath in the middle of the suffocating night while sweat soaked sheets ensnare wayward limbs fixing him in place while he claws for release, for a peace he doubts he’d recognize face-to-face.

Absolution, it turns out, is a pipedream meant for naïve pussies.

Toby counts his sins like sheep.

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

“Why am I such a glutton for punishment, Sister?”

“Because we accept the love we think we deserve.”

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

Toby ignores the letters that come regularly at first and then taper off sporadically as if buckling beneath the invisible chains of resignation and disappointment.

He levels a drawn out gaze trailing along the vaguely illegible, almost childlike scrawl of his name, and refuses to feel the guilt or shame that threatens to twist his stomach at the life not quite left behind. The chicken scratch-like scribble whispers cruelly of careful rehabilitation, of change, of stagnation.

He tosses them in the trash unopened.

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

“He feels remorse for what he’s done—,”

“So what—I’m supposed to forgive and forget? That’s _not_ going to happen.”

“Please, Tobias. This is as much for you as it is for him. Can you honestly tell me that holding onto this anger and resentment makes you feel good?”

“…”

“He’s broken, in body and in mind.”

“He’ll bounce back just fine. He always does.”

“So you won’t even consider—,”

“He tried to _die_ his way out and leave me to suffer the consequences.”

“Of being blamed for his death?”

“Of loving him!”

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

Toby makes a failed bid for normalcy by trying to fuck Chris out of his system.

He falls short (no surprise) and is left tentatively toeing thoughtfully at the pieces. All it ends up doing is shine a spotlight on how out of sync everything is.

Of the random stand ins who unknowingly step into the role, Sheila lasts the longest and for a good chunk of time Toby thinks he’s finally found the cure for the heartache that ails him. But then denial succumbs to reality and there’s no hiding what’s stalking him in plain sight.

When their lovemaking should be gentle and sweet, he’s rough and selfish instead, imagining strong muscled limbs under his hands and another man’s rigid cock hard against against his thigh before splitting him open, claiming him, marking every part of his body with unwavering intent.

When they’re headed for a good, hard fuck he can’t help closing his eyes and pulling up a memory of the soft sting of stubble against his cheek, heated breath spilling across parted lips, a firm hand softly swiping a thumb against the top of his cock as a drawn out, slow and steady thrusting puts him over the edge.

In the end Sheila valiantly puts up with his bullshit for four months before throwing in the towel. Not that he blames her. There’s only so much he can be honest about before he shuts down—to protect himself, to save her from wanting to save him. She’s understanding, kind and tough and in another lifetime that would have been enough—and he would have probably fucked it up anyway. Who he is _now_ demands a different brutal love.

He hates himself for the scars that mar her psyche on the way out. She deserves more than to be a casualty of his never ending war.

Even apart he and Chris are like a tag-team of mass destruction.

 

 

******* ****** ***** ***** *******

 

He retrieves the letters from the trash (each one every single time) and adds them to the growing pile saved in a shoebox at the back of his closet. When he’s ready he shuts the door on the world, sits on the bed, exhales a soothing breath and picks up where he left off with the unopened ones.

Multiple readings are necessary not the least of which has to do with the tears that always end up staining his cheeks and the muted sobs that cut short his breath.

He reads them until the words blur together then come crystal clear, searing themselves to his brain. Words like “sorry,” “miss you,” “need,” “fucker,” “love” lose their meaning until all that’s left is the intent behind Chris’ inked confessions. Toby is confounded by how Chris manages to be unapologetic while groveling. It’s a fucked up art which Chris has honed to perfection.

_Forgive me_ , is Chris’ silent plea.

_Isn’t loving you enough_ , Toby sighs.

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

He throws himself into work and family.

Work takes up residence in his mind. He revels in the law all over again. It flows through him like electricity in a world of near darkness. He loves the language of it, the way it sparks through his mind and dances off his tongue, the nuances that can turn everything on its head. The law is all encompassing, not above manipulation but empowering to all if wielded just right.

It’s the great equalizer.

Family takes hold of his heart. The smiles of his children, their elated chatter, curious minds and watchful gazes draw warmth through him he cannot articulate. It’s something he’s missed since…

Even then it’s not the same.

With Chris that sense of intimacy was more primal, urgent and base. It was honest in the most frightening of ways. There was no hiding the man who had been waiting in dormant beneath the mask of privileged son, the one who cautiously at first then eagerly with verve stepped forward when the walls closed in around him. With Chris it was everything all at once, every sense on heightened alert ready to drown in the headiness of it all.

It wasn’t healthy but it was liberating.

To be more than societal expectations built on class rigidity, more than whispered gossip at high society functions, more than a workaholic, alcoholic father or lost cause for a son.

It means he can be with his kids without a care for the peanut gallery pundits always quick with an opinion or judgment. He can be with Holly and Harry on their terms, the Three Musketeers taking stock in a new life.

He feels the ghost of Gary’s small hand in his giving a gentle squeeze of encouragement.

Toby did wrong by him once. He won’t make that mistake again.

Which is easy to say until he gets the latest round of news from Sister Pete.

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

“Didn’t Sister Pete tell you this?” O’Reily asks with a sly grin as he slumps down in the chair.

Across the table Toby considers his words carefully. He knows Chris was released from Oz a month earlier due to some deal with the Feds weighed in conjunction with the hefty consideration given for the injury that continues to impede his mobility (“It’s a rather pronounced limp,” Sister Pete had explained over coffee one afternoon when Toby was in a particularly piteous mood). He had been in an intermediate care facility for a bit and then seemingly vanished off the grid by the time Toby was informed and finished deliberating the pros and cons over seeing him (to get closure or pick at old wounds, he’s not quite sure).

Toby’s mind is a muddled mess of choices and roads less traveled. Resting his folded arms on the table he says, “I know the basics. It’s the…”

O’Reily appears amused at the silence that follows, dickishly letting the awkwardness drag out longer than necessary. “The details that got you tossing and turning,” he finally offers up.

Toby nods.

“Well let’s see.” O’Reily crosses his arms against his chest and steals a glance at Murphy who is eagle-eyeing them from the doorway. “A couple of months after you managed to walk out of these lovely digs because of some legal magic mumbo jumbo the Tin Man walks back in—the fuckin’ limpin’ gimp—ready for WWIII, convinced he’s some invincible superhero, but I’ve seen that look before, seen it in my own damn reflection, you know.”

Toby sucks in a deep breath while images of Chris play across this mind.

O’Reily tilts his head thoughtfully and smirks. “My mistake was expressing an interest. He starts going on about you and it’s the usual crap talk but you know what happens during those long hours between lights out and morning count when it’s just the two of you—,”

“You two shared a pod?”

O’Reily raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Not by choice—at least not at first. And definitely not in the way you think so put the jealous boyfriend bit back in the closet. You know as well as I do that there are few people I trust to have my back—,”

Now it’s Toby’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Better the devil you know.” O’Reily leans forward breaching their space conspiratorially. “I told him to write you and stop yammering in my ear but you never wrote back—not that he said anything, just got moody every time the mail cart went away— and his writing looked like it was done by some little kid and he fucking lashed out as only Keller can when he doesn’t get what he wants. Fucker was in the hole all the time until Sister Pete convinced the warden to let him do his time with her, working on his writing and talking about his feelings and shit.”

“Did he get better?”

“By then? Yeah. But it was a long time coming.”

“How did he seem?”

“I don’t know…calmer, more focused, intense as usual, determined.”

“Which was around the time the FBI deal materialized?”

O’Reily cracks a smile. “I told you he has a horseshoe up his ass.”

“Or he took control of his obsession,” Toby comments wryly.

“Deny it all you want but deep down inside we both know you love being at the centre of his crosshairs.”

“I don’t know what you—,”

O’Reily stands suddenly, the chair scraping loudly across the floor. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Beecher.” He turns for the door than pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Come back and see us some time. There’s money riding on you guys.”

“For how much?” Toby snorts.

“Aw, where’s the fun in you knowing the odds?” O’Reily grins and walks out.

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

Toby goes through the motions of day-to-day life.

He spends all his time waiting for the other shoe to drop. The thing is, when he’s honest with himself, lying alone in bed and staring into the moon tinted darkness, he’s looking forward to it.

Day in. Day out.

…the heaviness of a gaze on his back when he’s heading into work in the morning or taking his kids to the park.

…hang ups from unlisted phone numbers at the same time every night for a week.

…a familiar laugh in the distance; nearly drowned out by the din of the restaurant.

…the faint scent when someone pushes by on a crowded subway.

The randomness becomes a pattern.

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

The truth is this:

Chris doesn’t let go easily.

Neither does Toby.

 

******* ***** ***** ***** *******

 

He hesitates in the open doorway of the brownstone and listens to the emptiness of his home. The kids are with Angus for the weekend. Toby finally has the place to himself.

Crossing the threshold he drops the keys on the side table and shuts the door behind with a light kick, thinking only a moment before leaving it unlocked. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over the staircase banister, and drops his suitcase on the floor. Slowly he makes a calculated walk down the hallway to the kitchen, counting footsteps the way he used to when leaving the hole for Em City.

Getting the coffee started, he pulls out two mugs and sets them on the counter. Staring straight ahead at the cupboard, he waits.

In the distance the front door opens and, after a brief pause, clicks shut. Toby closes his eyes and strains his hearing, listening for the odd shuffled walk that creaks the floorboards, getting closer and closer, eventually stopping just inside the kitchen.

It’s strange, the comfort that can be found in a matching breath once so familiar as to be nearly indistinguishable from his own, to be near one who has seen the ugliness up close, called it out, subdued it with a strangled loving embrace, seen the salvation and beauty deep within and demanded the same in return.

He owes it to himself to be honest. He owes it to his kids to be fair. He owes it to Chris to mean the words, _I forgive_. After all, Toby is no innocent either, hasn’t been in quite some time. And Chris never saw him as unworthy of love—no matter how hard they fought they came back at each other threefold.

Hearing a throat clear behind, Toby opens his eyes and turns on the spot. Although seemingly dwarfed by the doorway, Chris commands the room. He’s always been a larger-than-life entity and as Toby notes the strong lean lines of his leather jacket draped torso down to his take-no-shit thighs in fitted blue jeans, drawing his gaze back up to the lightly stubbled cheeks and crisp blue eyes, he is once again intoxicated by the sheer will of force, of _being_ , that Chris exudes.

It’s a battle Toby only won when he learned to surrender. Denying Chris only led to being enslaved by his dominance. Embracing him is what elevated Toby to equal footing. As strange as it sounds it’s what broke Chris down and set Toby free, it’s what deciphered the puzzle that had been Toby’s life, where he hated with equal passion as he loved.

As he _still_ loves.

For the first time in what feels like years Toby smiles—small and tired as it is, it’s a smile tried and true. He grips the counter behind, steadying himself. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

Chris smirks but rather than sounding condescending it’s trademark, bordering, almost surprisingly, on sentimental. “Didn’t think you’d want me.”

There’s pain in those words despite how indifferent Chris delivers them and Toby lowers his gaze, biting his bottom lip before meeting that familiar inquisitive stare. “When have I ever not wanted you?” he asks wistfully.

Chris shrugs and takes a small step forward. “I can think of a few times.”

“When I didn’t change my mind? I think I’ve proven myself pretty consistent when it comes to you. I’m fucking reckless about it too.”

“The heart wants what it wants,” Chris steps now with confidence into his personal space, crowding him against the counter.

“Cut the bullshit—,”

“There ain’t any bullshit with us, Toby.” Chris cubs the side of his neck, lightly tracing his fingers across the skin and Toby raises his hands, caught between pulling Chris closer and pushing him away.

“I should break your back and make it stick this time,” Toby says through gritted teeth, fighting not to bend into the touch or lash out against it.

Chris tightens his grip. “I’d let you, you know. I’d let you break me in pieces, my arms, my legs. I’d take a bullet to the heart, bleed out for you, _feel_ every single last breath of this fucking life. Tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

“You offered that before and it wasn’t enough.”

“And now?” Chris leans back, eyes searching Toby’s face, a hint of desperation hardly contained.

Toby meets the challenge head on. Chris is on the opposite end of the spectrum from Holly and Harry but he’s as fixed a point in what’s turned out to be an arbitrary existence. In, out, push, pull, chaos destroyed the old guard and something new was reborn. Toby’s been as addicted to hurt—be it anger or sorrow—as any liquor, powder or pill. None of it ever did him any good besides fueling him down questionable paths.

Many times he wanted to give up, give in, but he could be a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, wrapping himself in the pain of survival, thinking he deserved the suffering as penance, refusing the easy way out because anything worth having comes at a price and absolution is the steepest one—he’ll never get it.

But maybe now, here, like this, after everything he’s crawled his way through, if he can accept the sins that cling to his body as much as the ones that burden everyone else, maybe self awareness is the clean slate he was always striving for—easier to grasp but harder to swallow.

“It’s a start,” Toby says and, leaning forward, presses a kiss to Chris’ lips.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I owe credit to the film 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' for the line, "We accept the love we think we deserve."


End file.
